Well, I see the "Mediocrity for Mom!" campaign is in full swing. I swan, If Keats, Yeats, Dylan Thomas and Bily the Shake all showed up and posted here in their very best style, you two would ignore it and find something by Edgar Guest or Aloysius Tabernacle Drone.

"It Takes A Heap of Livin...

It takes a heap o' livin' in a house t' make it home, A heap o' sun an' shadder, an' ye sometimes have t' roam Afore ye really 'preciate the things ye lef' behind An' hunger fer 'em somehow, with 'em allus on yer mind. It don't make any differunce how rich ye get t' be, How much yer chairs an' tables cost, how great yer luxury; It ain't home t' ye, though it be the palace of a king, Until somehow yer soul is sort o' wrapped round everything...."

A pathetic tragedy I will relate, Concerning poor Fred. Marsden's fate, Who suffocated himself by the fumes of gas, On the 18th of May, and in the year of 1888, alas!

Fred. Marsden was a playwright, the theatrical world knows, And was highly esteemed by the people, and had very few foes; And in New York, in his bedroom, he took his life away, And was found by his servant William in his bedroom where he lay.

The manner in which he took his life : first he locked the door, Then closed down the window, and a sheet to shreds he tore And then stopped the keyholes and chinks through which air might come, Then turned on the single gas-burner, and soon the deed was done.

About seven o'clock in the evening he bade his wife good-night, And she left him, smoking, in his room, thinking all was right, But when morning came his daughter said she smelled gas, Then William, his servant, called loudly on him, but no answer, alas!

Then suspicion flashed across William's brain, and he broke open the door, Then soon the family were in a state of uproar, For the room was full of gas, and Mr Marsden quite dead, And a more kind-hearted father never ate of the world's bread.

And by his kindness he spoiled his only child, His pretty daughter Blanche, which made him wild; For some time he thought her an angel, she was so very civil, But she dishonoured herself, and proved herself a devil.

Her father idolised her, and on her spared no expense, And the kind-hearted father gave her too much indulgence, Because evening parties and receptions were got up for her sake, Besides, he bought her a steam yacht to sail on Schroon Lake.

His means he lavished upon his home and his wife, And he loved his wife and daughter as dear as his life; But Miss Blanche turned to folly, and wrecked their home through strife, And through Miss Marsden's folly her father took his life.

She wanted to ride, and her father bought her a horse, And by giving her such indulgences, in morals she grew worse; And by her immoral actions she broke her father's heart; And, in my opinion, she has acted a very ungrateful part.

At last she fled from her father's house, which made him mourn, Then the crazy father went after her and begged her to return, But she tore her father's beard, and about the face beat him, Then fled to her companions in evil, and thought it no sin.

Then her father sent her one hundred dollars, and found her again, And he requested her to come home, but it was all in vain; For his cruel daughter swore at him without any dread, And, alas! next morning, he was found dead in his bed.

And soon theatrical circles were shocked to learn, Of the sudden death of genial Fred Marsden, Whose house had been famous for its hospitality, To artists, litterateurs, and critics of high and low degree.

And now dear Mrs Marsden is left alone to mourn The loss of her loving husband, whom to her will ne'er return; But I hope God will be kind to her in her bereavement, And open her daughter's eyes, and make her repent

For being the cause of her father's death, the generous Fred, Who oft poor artists and mendicants has fed; But, alas! his bounties they will never receive more, Therefore poor artists and mendicants will his loss deplore.

Therefore, all ye kind parents of high and low degree, I pray ye all, be advised by me, And never pamper your children in any way, Nor idolise them, for they are apt to go astray,

And treat ye, like pretty Blanche Marsden, Who by her folly has been the death of one of the finest men; So all kind parents, be warned by me, And remember always this sad Tragedy!

Now that Little Hawk has exposed his sentiments like a beery overweight football fan mooning from a team bus window, I am beginning to understand where the drag on Mom's best creative aspirations come from. It is clearly a conspiracy between Book Man and Beaver Boy, to bind her to the mediocre, chain her to the compromised plane of insufferable average thought, and tie her down to the inept and uninspired levels which only they can represent so well.

There are few who can touch Julia A. Moore's poetic gifts, except, of course, for the great William McGonagall, he who has no peer. What a splendid couple they would have made, and THINK of the stunning collaborative works which might have resulted from such a match made in poetic heaven!

And they might have had progeny, the descendants of which would still be with us today, continuing to write.

A new low for Mom, indeed, Rapaire!! You may add another notch to your belt of down-scale milestones made by your own hand. That was truly abysmal, and free of any tinge of merit, either as BS or as poetry. You have outdone your most awful self. You verge on Personal Shatnerization, an evanescent state of transcendental medocrity which, I add hopefully, may be accompanied by mystic south-bound spontaneous evaporation, as befits such a crystalline pool of purest piddle.

Now that my brother's October 8 birthday is long past (in fact the birthdays of both bothers are past), I will post this wonderful poem which celebrates another October 8 event very similar to my brother's birth:

The Great Chicago Fire Julia A. Moore

The great Chicago Fire, friends, Will never be forgot; In the history of Chicago It will remain a darken spot. It was a dreadful horrid sight To see that City in flames; But no human aid could save it, For all skill was tried in vain.

In the year of 1871, In October on the 8th, The people in that City, then Was full of life, and great. Less than four days it lay in ruins, That garden City, so great Lay smouldering in ashes, In a sad and pitiful state.

It was a sad, sad scene indeed, To see the fire arise, And hear the crackling of the flames As it almost reached the skies, And sadder still, to hear the moans, Of people in the flames Cry for help, and none could get, Ah, die where they remained.

To see the people run for life; Up and down the blazing streets, To find then, their escape cut off By the fiery flaming sheets, And others hunting for some friend That perhaps they never found, Such weeping, wailing, never was known, For a thousands miles around.

Some people were very wealthy On the morning of the 10th. But at the close of the evening, Was poor, but felt content, Glad to escape from harm with life With friends they loved so well, Some will try to gain more wisdom, By the sad sight they beheld.

Five thousand people were homeless, Sad wanderers in the streets, With no shelter to cover them, And no food had they to eat. They wandered down by the lake side, Lay down on the cold damp ground, So tired and weary and homeless, So the rich, the poor, was found.

Mothers with dear little infants, Some clinging to the breast. People of every description All laid down there to rest, With the sky as their covering, Ah, pillows they had none. Sad, oh sad, it must have been, For those poor homeless ones.

Neighboring Cities sent comfort, To the poor lone helpless ones, And God will not forget them In all the years to come. Now the City of Chicago Is built up anew once more, And may it never be visited With such a great fire no more. ------------ For your future enjoyment of this poem, note that it can easily be sung to the tune of "Puttin' On The Style" although you have to create your own chorus.

Well, Mom, while the boys were busy sniping at each other I saw 4 private clients, cleaned house, including mopping both the vinyl and the hardwood floors, raked leaves, did the grocery shopping, and continued to ponder where to plant the beautious and exotic japanese azalea Bobert brought to me at the Getaway.

I also counted the number of trees of significant size on my 100x145 lot.

Twnety-two. Mostly oaks of some sort with a few maples, some long-leaf pines, and one old and sick looking hemlock. Plus a few redbuds and old dogwoods that are tall and spindly from not enough sun under the canapy of the larger trees. Sister Annie came down a few weeks ago, and we committed a texas chainsaw execution to a number of smallish white pines that had cropped up at inopportune locations.

There are some whopper stumps from old oaks that had hollowed out and were taken down at some point. I suspect at least some of holes in the center of those stumps lead to wormholes. I need to figure out which ones by spring so I don't plant ferns in them. Wormholes hate it when you clog their entryways with fern roots.

I provided her with much nourishment: a rich assortment of croissants both regular and sweet, home-cured bacon and sausages, steel-cut oatmeal with maple sugar and pecans, and an apple streudel, with hot spiced apple cider to drink.

Au contraire, mon vieux -- zero is an Arabic invention. As I am sure you are aware, there is a difference.

I am sure, of course, that you are aware of the Paradoxes of Zeno of Elea and the discussion of zero therein, that Pingala (around the 3rd Century BCE, more or less) was using zero in calculations in India (where zero had been used as early as the 9th Century BCE), that it was used in Chiapas on the Long Count stela in 36 BCE, and that as long ago as the Song Dynasty mathematicians in China understood both negative numbers and zero (although they had no symbol for it). Naturally, by 130 CE Ptolemy, as influenced by Hipparchus, was using a symbol for zero.

But why should I go on? I'm certain you know all of this and likewise certain that you chose to ignore the multinational, indeed global, roots of mathematics.

I think MOM stayed up to watch the atomic clock change the time last night. She was looking kind of tired so I let her sleep longer this morning. Maybe Rap will wake her with some of those fancy-pants breakfast cakes and some hot coffee (in a mug of course, not a paper cup).